7/30/18 12:51AM
the end of a buffalo
summer is rot inside of your rib cage slowly
crawling over all the
functions and grinding it to a halt
it’s a constant clattering and grinding
of train wheels to halt,
and then sporadically inching
back and forth
until the rust is writhing in a pile below the wheels,
where people swim and pick glass
it’s arresting and crumbling, beaming white hot desperation
as you drive home at any hour of the night
ending buffalo summer is a cancerous lump being excised
right out of your eye socket and realizing that your
vision is healthy but halved
it’s loosening your shirt collar
as you try to make room in between your shirt
and your neck for a scarf
it’s wrinkled glory and health fairs
boozy crawling from one weekend
to the next
august is when the sun brings out the dead